Motor Show

“The moose in the red suit may be symbolising the savagery and vulnerability of the animal kingdom.”
“Really, did the zombie who took his kit off and was drawn to the telephone box symbolise something too? … and what about the chicken feather head-dresses of the people in the tight leotards in the limousine?”
“Oh yes, it was all symbolic.”

Well, I’ve seen symbolics in my time, but the Motor Show took the biscuit.
“You just didn’t understand it” said my companion, and no I didn’t.
Should I have done? Could I have done? How? Is it necessary to understand something to like it, to engage with it?
My companion enjoyed the choreography of the dancers in their cars, the symbolism of love, violence, danger and more depicted in the outdoor show, against the backdrop of the gritty and grim Black Rock. And I could see the potential of
a late-night show in such a dramatic setting. Some bits were memorable in a visually artistic way: the synchronised diving into the Renaults by the trio of lovers; the spilling out of blackened bodies from the tragic caravan.

But on the whole, when I watch indecipherable shows that to me seem meaningless, I get irritated. Annoyed at the amount of public funding these type of shows attract. I become positively Victor Meldrew-ish at the nonsense of it. It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes, I thought as I became aware of many members of the audience looking as if they ought to be thrilled by it, having paid £10 to sit amongst a packed-out outdoor auditorium.

One drunk passed by on the overhead road and shouted “You’re sh*t and you know it”.
We didn’t know if it was part of the play or not. Who could know? Apart from it wasn’t coming through the special headphones we were all wearing. After over an hour of this spectacle, I was cold and bored of stifling giggles. Relieved when it ended abruptly.

Black Rock, 12 May 2012

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